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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26731093">Cunty</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany'>Tammany</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate World, Dark, F/F, F/M, Forced Breeding, Gen, Incest, M/M, Multi, Slavery</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:35:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26731093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a dark, sad alternate world. Omegaverse. Alphas are free citizens--nearly lords. Omegas are property, and used as brood animals and sex toys. It is possible to use transforming drugs to convert an Alpha into an Omega. They are technically illegal. So are a lot of things that happen rather often anyway. </p><p>Breeding is very much livestock breeding, including new lines having to stabilize themselves through pure line breeding to force out culls and bad genetics. Incest is common when setting up new lines. </p><p>This is the story of the transformed Omega now known only as "Cunty," and of the changes that take him from being a slag brood Omega in his brother and sister's home, to live as a new brood cow in the home of an old associate. It may be a one-shot. I'm just playing around with the logistics and emotions. This is not a good world in which to be a transform Omega.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Mycroft/Eurus, Mycroft/OCs, mycroft/lestrade, mycroft/sherlock</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Cunty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The household policy was to give the older slags to the nursery, so the Alphas could grow up completely comfortable in their command of Omegas, especially forced-transformation Omegas. Some brought up the concern that the boys and girls were exploring Omegas who might well be their own biological parents, but in the end it was felt that even this was an advantage. Better for the children to understand that there was no emotional investment in Omega brooders, and that genetic issues could always be dealt with by drowning defective offspring in a bucket or throwing them into the nearest duck pond in a burlap bag…a task made particularly amusing if you forced the aging slag to do the drowning themselves as the rightful consequence for an unwanted baby.<br/>
</p><p>No one ever brought up the fact that the baby’s conception and birth had been no choice of the slag’s, either. The point was, defective babies were unwanted, and the slags were the slutty bitches who bore them. And it was a good lesson for the youngsters to take command of this element of household control at an early age.</p><p>Thus the transformed Omega whose household name at the time was Tight Arse found himself reassigned to the third floor, given into the hands of Sherlock, Eurus’s, and Moriarty’s offspring when Sherlock, Eurus and Moriarty tired of Tight Arse’s services themselves. Two weeks later he had a new name: Cunty. Five months later he found himself pregnant with his own nephew. Grand-nephew. Grand-child. Ogilvie, his son by Sherlock, had impregnated him during Cunty’s heat, with all the other children watching as their brother-cousin drove himself up Cunty’s bum and his riding crop thrashed Cunty’s buttocks, flipping from one side to another like a jockey’s crop.<br/>
<br/>
Cunty had stopped crying in situations like this years before, but exhaustion and humiliation had worn on him, and now he hung his head, letting tears fall freely down his cheeks and off his chin, drooling as he sobbed quietly. Life was what it was. When his next heat failed to arrive, and he found himself puking in the morning, he knew what lay ahead. Rather than find himself herded to the duck pond by Ogilvie wielding a bullwhip and a quarter staff, carrying his own infant in a bag to the water’s edge, he reported early to the house Steward. John despised him, and always had—but the beta doctor retained a humanity the House Alphas had lost.<br/>
<br/>
“Can you just clean it out? Now?”</p><p>“More than my life is worth, destroying a Breedline calf in womb,” John said, voice bland. “But I can suggest to Sherlock and his spouses that you be sold in calf. It’s good line breeding, that: a brother-brother match followed by an uncle-nephew match? If it’s an Alpha any house nearby will be thrilled to have a Holmes stud. If it’s an Omega, at least it can improve their household harem. I’ll see what I can do to get you sold.”</p><p>Cunty had not expected much better. He crept to his “bed,” the single blanket tossed in the corner of the school room. Later that day he heard Ogilvie’s screams of rage from the floor below.<br/>
<br/>
“It’s my get! I’ll sell it or keep it, as I please!”</p><p>Sherlock’s voice drawled, lazy, saying, “Oh, do be realistic, boy. Like as not it’s defective. Line-breeding hasn’t gone on long enough to purify the line with culls yet. Just because you came out right doesn’t mean Mike’s new brat will be healthy.”</p><p>“Mike?” Ogilvie sounded bewildered. Poor lad—so much he didn’t know about his own House and lineage…<br/>
<br/>
“Cunty,” Sherlock said, with a shrug that seemed somehow audible. “Your slag. He’s a line Omega, and close enough to you that the outcome’s iffy. Better to sell it on. Sell him on. I’ve had my worth out of him.”</p><p>“I haven’t,” came Eurus’ sharp soprano, and a sound that was probably Moriarty agreeing. But Sherlock growled.</p><p>“Sell him out. Omega and calf will bring a sweet profit, and I’ve been looking at buying John the Hooper Omega. She’s got medical training. It will benefit the House.”</p><p>“And if he does’t want her?” Eurus’ voice was dismissive.</p><p>“Then Jimmy and I will have our pleasure,” Sherlock said, and silenced Ogilvie with a slap when the boy tried to raise his own interests again.</p><p>So Cunty found himself standing, head sagging and shoulders stooped, barefoot on the cold granite cobbles of the House courtyard, as a gaggle of potential buyers examined him.</p><p>“Getting on, isn’t he?”</p><p>“Aye,” John said. “But he’s capable. If you need a steward or a bookkeeper he’d be an asset. Or you can do what we did here, and put him in with the young ‘uns so they know the difference between taking oath with an Alpha and fucking a brood Omega or a slag. You don’t want your boys and girls wasting emotion on the herd animals.”</p><p>John sounded casual and at ease with that logic. Cunty wondered when the “good doctor” had drifted from his former respect for brood Omegas to this lazy indifference.</p><p>“How far along is the calf? No point buying if it’s not settled deep. Transforms aren’t reliable brood kine—they lose too many to breed for any reason but to get a single pure-line calf.”</p><p>“He’s three months along. I’ve been monitoring. I think he’ll bring it to term. If not, we’ll throw in a replacement line calf. Not one of Sherlock’s, but Eurus’s Omegas produce good get too, and the younger Alpha bucks are reaching randy stage, as you can see.” John walked behind Cunty and cradled his hand casually over the Omega’s belly, where the curve of his pregnancy had just begun to show. He gave a sly rock of his hips, an unexpected hard-on jabbing Cunty in the bum. “And he’s still a good ride. Never mounted him myself—always thought him a fat ginger cow, if you want to know. But he’s a screamer if you like to take ‘em hard and bound.”</p><p>The next hour was misery, as strange hands cupped and cradled and crept inside Cunty’s arse, and tugged his balls, and slipped into his mouth, and pinched the plump nipples of his slight breasts with enthusiasm, making him whimper. Men and women alike plastered themselves over his body, determining what kind of ride they’d find him. He dared not look up to see if he recognized any of the buyers from the days when he’d been a free Alpha, before Sherlock had captured him unsuspecting and injected him with the first of the transform shots, before imprisoning him for the remainder of the series.</p><p>When they were done, they walked away with John, making tentative offers, with creative financing. A calf of their own lines for partial payment. A year’s harvest of rye, on which the key transform drugs were grown. A townhouse in London. An Alpha daughter to marry young Ogilvie.</p><p>A groom from the stables tied a rope around Cunty’s neck and led him to the stables, as he was no longer considered a house Omega. The lad forced Cunty to his knees and collected a blow-job before he would leave.</p><p>He pointed Cunty to the trough, and threw a grooming rag at him. “Wash your face, cow. They may want one last look before they close any deals.”</p><p>Cunty complied, quietly. In truth, he preferred washing the semen from his face himself, rather than let the groom maul him about.</p><p>So. He was being sold. No doubt he would never see Sherlock or Eurus again. Or any of his get, either. He wondered if he cared for any of them. Certainly not for Ogilvie. Perhaps a bit for the very few little corpses that floated at the bottom of the duck pond. On the whole Sherlock had preferred to keep any offspring they Alphaed on Cunty. Brother-brother matches of a good line were rare, and valued.</p><p>The next morning the groom came, whipped him silently to a waiting van, and bound him hand and foot, gagging and blindfolding him as a final indignity. John didn’t even bother to say goodbye. Certainly Sherlock, Eurus, and Moriarty didn’t. Ogilvie, however, did, and finding “his slag” so conveniently tied up, he enjoyed one last ride “for sentiment’s sake.” Then he slapped Cunty on the bum, and left, whistling.</p><p> </p><p>The drive was long. Cunty threw up into his gag. Later, unable to do otherwise, he pissed and shat himself. When he reached his destination, new grooms greeted him with grumbles of disgust, and hosed him off with cold water in a new House courtyard: this one paved in tawny-pink brick and walled in with peach sandstone. They were south of Sherlock’s holding. That was all Cunty knew. The new grooms removed his blindfold, untied his arms and legs, his hands and feet, and ordered him to remove his own fouled gag. Then they prodded him with shepherd’s crooks until he rose unsteadily to his feet. They hooded him, retied his wrists behind him, and used a willow cane to drive him across the yard and into the house. The maids took over, then. Giggling, they fondled and peered at Cunty’s privates, including the deep, soft anal entry unique to Omegas.</p><p>“Slag,” one whispered. “Master coulda got a young thing with a tight arse, if he’d wanted.”</p><p>“Doubt he cares about the slag,” another said. “Wants the calf, like enough. A Holmes crossed with a second generation Holmes- Holmes? Those are good genes for any brood herd. Valuable calves.”</p><p>Cunty remembered the night Ogilvie had been conceived. He’d been bound, much as he’d been in the van. Moriarty had bent him backward over a table, with his arse hanging over the edge, and had played viciously with his tits while Sherlock hoisted Cunty’s legs over his shoulders and took his arse. Back then he’d been new, and they’d called him Tight Arse, his body rejuvenated by the transformation to that of a twenty-year-old Omega. That was before they bred a total of ten more calves off of him, including the three who drifted on the floor of the duck pond for the sin of deformities.</p><p>“Wonder if master will let any of us fuck it,” said another maid, using the “it” many people used for Omegas and transform Omegas. “Haven’t enjoyed a bound cow’s cock in forever.”</p><p>“Aye,” another said, a bit wistfully. “Nothin’ quite like ordering a cow bound and left in the stall for you, is there? Especially in heat. If they can’t get an Alpha to prod their arses, they’re happy enough for a house maid to ride their cocks.”</p><p>The giggling was just malicious enough to make Cunty cringe. He did not, however, end up in a stall. That was a blessing. Instead he was taken into the house, placed in a small room on a mattress on a shallow cot, and his lead rope tied to a ring in the wall.</p><p>“Master will be by to inspect the goods later,” said one maid, and then they were gone.</p><p>Master was by later, indeed. He took off Cunty’s hood, and looked into his face.</p><p>“Aye,” he said, quietly. “It’s you, right enough.”</p><p>“Lestrade?” Cunty felt sick again. There had been a time he’d longed to love this man—to bond with him and form an entirely different Holmes household than Sherlock had created. He’d once thought, perhaps, Holmes Lestrade, and their first brood cow could have been the Hooper Omega Sherlock was now considering for John. A peaceful, pleasant household… lost to a shot of transform and a brother with other ideas.</p><p>Lestrade nodded, brusquely. “I hear you’re in calf? With one of Sherlock’s line?”</p><p>“Sherlock begot Ogilvie on me fifteen years ago.”</p><p>“Good bloodlines,” Lestrade said, casually. “If you give me an Alpha, I’ll raise him or her free. Even if born with defects. If it’s an Omega, I’ll add a good one to my herd, and spare you the pain of having to put a defect down yourself.”</p><p>“Ah, the benefits to be had from old friendships,” Cunty drawled, then cringed and ducked his head, regretting the old sarcasm surfacing.</p><p>He was right to regret. Lestrade’s hand came down in a mighty slap. “None of that, Mickey. Or, no. You’ve got a new name now. What was it?” It was a question that demanded an answer in spite of already knowing. “Speak up. New name?”</p><p>“Cunty, sir,”</p><p>“That’s right. Cunty. An eleven-get slag, carrying a twelfth calf. Over your prime.” Then Lestrade’s voice changed, regret mixing with actual rage. “You should have come to me, if you’d wanted to shift, you bastard. I’d have taken you, Alpha, Omega, Beta or gender-neuter.”</p><p>The silence hung between them. Then Cunty said, softly, “I was not given a choice. Not the choice of transform, or whose house I would enter. I have had no choices of my own of any scope for almost twenty years, Lestrade. Other than to bend over politely, or bend over after being starved and beaten into submission.”</p><p>The energy between them was brittle and uneasy.</p><p>“And if you were to bend over to a new master?” Lestrade growled at last.</p><p>Cunty stood, turned, and knelt in front of the cot, bending his body over it, asrse high and anus vulnerable. “Your wish is my command, sir.”</p><p>He heard Lestrade play with his flies, and unzip. One hand came down and fondled the globes of Cunty’s bum, then slipped into his anus, stirring up slick with the friction of his fingers’ passage. The other hand reached around and cupped his pregnancy before slipping down and toying with his cock and balls.</p><p>“I own you now,” he murmured in Cunty’s ear. “You used to be Mike. Now you’re Cunty, and you’re mine. Aren’t you?”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” Cunty said. His hands were pinned against his back, still bound. He couldn’t wipe the tears already slipping down his face. He snorked up snot, crying, unsure if he was glad to at least have Lestrade as his master, or if he just wanted to die and be done with all the pain and loss and humiliation.</p><p>“I’ll use you often,” Lestrade growled—and thrust hard and deep.</p><p>It wasn’t enough to jar the pregnancy. But it was enough to put Cunty in his place. More humiliating, when Lestrade was done he jerked Cunty off, crooning that it was good to know his new cow liked being used properly.</p><p>Cunty’s new master untied his hands, untied the halter line from the wall, removed the halter from Cunty’s head, and patted his butt. “That’s a good slag, y’daft old thing. Settle in. I’ll have the house maids look after you as well as you can expect. They won’t spoil you—you’re still just a herd cow, and nothing can change you back now. But they’ll keep you clean and give you a kilt and blouse and set you up so you can have a safe delivery. I’ve got a local Omega-doctor who will come in when you deliver. If he tries to take the babe away—let him. It’s better than being made to drown your own. Otherwise I’ll leave your get with you. Once the milk comes in you’ll be all set.”</p><p>“You’re letting me feed the child at breast?” The shock of the notion rattled Cunty.</p><p>“Aye? Less trouble than finding a wet nurse,” Lestrade said. “You never got to nurse one?”</p><p>“They took the ‘keepers’ and sent grooms in to milk the first milk from me,” Cunty said. They never even let me hold any of the ones they kept. Only the ones bound for the duck pond.”</p><p>A gentle hand stroked thick hair from the Omega’s brow. “Ah, you poor cow,” Lestrade said, gruff but sympathetic. He stroked Cunty again. “I recall when you were going bald.”</p><p>“Omega transform,”Cunty said. “About the only benefit. It came back thick and curly and redder than ever.”</p><p>“Gives a man something to hold onto when he fucks your face,” Lestrade said.</p><p>It sounded like he considered that a plus.</p><p>Cunty wondered if he was really just Cunty to his old associate. Or if there really was some trace of “Mike” left in the other man’s memory. Beyond, of course, his former receding hairline.</p><p>He couldn’t bring himself to ask. Just as well. Lestrade took a few more minutes to stroke his hair and explore his body. He pinched Cunty’s tits. “I’ll leave your body be the last few weeks before you deliver,” he said. “But until then, it’s good to have a well-trained Omega at my service. Prepare for a regular kilt-flippin’.”<br/>
<br/>
And then he was gone, leaving Cunty to shiver in his new cot, wondering if he’d been rescued in some way—or only cast into a deeper hell. Once he’d loved his new master. Now—if only for the comparative gentleness, he found himself already longing to love him again. Even if he loved a man who would always see him from here on in as Cunty, a sexual convenience and a valuable brood cow, nothing more.</p><p>He remembered Lestrade’s hand on his cock, teasing him to unwilling orgasm. Soon he was puffing and moaning, tugging his own meat, tits tight with longing, arse clenching, as he clung to the filthy, humiliating fantasy of being used again, and again, and again.<br/>
<br/>
Lestrade's slag. Gagging for it.</p>
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